“Mrs. St. John, where did you go to college?”
“Well, right after high school (and my divorce) I went to Buffalo State College. I took some art classes and poetry classes for a few semesters. Then I did life for about 15 years…”
Guess that’s where I have been these last years. Doing Life. Doing Death. It’s time to write again. It’s time to define. Prose isn’t going to cut it and I can’t call this a poem, so enjoy the stream-of-consciousness cathartic outpouring below.
When am I supposed to:
cry, laugh, plan, move (to go to another place with a continuous motion)?
When am I allowed to:
wear red, go dancing, stop drinking, keep crying?
When do I:
take off my rings, buy a car, go on vacation, move…on?
On? On where? On what? On the border? On the road? On demand?
On (the preposition): “a function word to indicate position … in contact with” hmmm… .
On (the adverb): “a position of being attached to” Ahhh… .
On (the adjective) “engaged…being in operation” Okay.
A Haiku
To bloom—a cliché
stifled by thinking “flowers.”
Sign: “Opening Soon.”